Quiet

By Rachel Lockwood

Energy collects in the body and wants out.

Energy collects, swarms the body,

consumes itself and leaves a

crackling hollow behind, covered in ferns.

The body cannot sleep in silence,

wracked, wrapped in vines of electrical impulse,

It manufactures breath as a white noise machine.

The eyes close. The mouth closes.

The hands do not know what to do with themselves,

the hands close on themselves.

The body dips down and away into the hush of oxygen exchange

and arrives at the top of a mountain.

The body chips the stone.

Starts building the quietest lake you’ve ever seen.

Rachel Lockwood is from Hawke's Bay, but now lives in Wellington. Previously, she has been published in Starling, Salient, and on NZ Poetry Shelf